Mousing Out the Trap
by ladyredraven
Summary: What really did happen on 24 Culver Street? How can someone resolve the difference between two different parts of themselves? Based on Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap. Spoilers for the entire play.
1. The Prologue

Disclaimer: The Mousetrap is the property of Agatha Christie and they who she bequeathed the rights to. This is just a work of fiction intended to flesh out the story. No copyright infringement intended.

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**LONDON**

_Clack, clack, clack._ Echoing in the narrow alley were the footsteps of a pair of woman's high heels. The movement of the lady's skirt whispered in the background of the steady beat. Briskly, they took the wearer further away from the dim glow of the main street lamps. A low, wistful whistle interrupted the no-nonsense patter. First a low note, followed by two even lower than their predecessor. Clunk of sole and ground accented the tune.

"Who's there?" the woman called out. Her query was answered only by more whistling. Turning around, she peered to see the origin of the tune. Warily, she took hesitant steps back, matched by the determined ones of the newcomer. Quickly, the two of them found themselves against one of the grimy walls. "What are you doing? What business do you have with me?"

At such close proximity, she saw her pursuer was bundled up heavily. The only way she could distinguish physical features was the pale scarf--marking the face. In a crazed face and its accompanying voice asked, though the words were highly muffled, "Do you remember him? Was it fun?"

Sputtering, the cowering woman managed to say, "Who are you? Who is 'he'? Tell me what you're talking about!" Her arm was fiercely grasped, causing her to cry out in alarm. "Unhand me!"

"Hush madam," her attacker placed a hand over her mouth. "We wouldn't want to attract attention, now would we?" The feral tone caused her to whimper and shake her head desperately. "No, we wouldn't want to. That was always said. You ought to remember him. Try and remember if it was fun. You will have to tell him if it was fun." Ragged breathing led into throaty chuckles. "Oh yes, do remember." Muffler and hat were pushed aside. "Because you're going to see him."

Terrified, the woman came to a realization. She went to take a breath to scream with, but---BANG!! A revolver fired, with screams accompanying the shots, three more times, piercing the night's silence. Then, there was nothing but the thump of a body and heavy breaths.

Calmly, the revolver was concealed. A notebook was extracted from one of the many coat pockets. Gloved hands opened it and meticulously took pen to paper and began to sketch. It was ripped out and laid to rest on the dead woman. Casually, the murderer walked away, taking up the whistled tune once again. On the paper were not only words and a sketch, but a bar of music. A bar of music that matched the song being whistled.

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_TWEET! TWEET! TWEET!_

"Over here boys," called a detective. Shrill whistles brought the constables running in full force. A crowd of people had amassed, curious as to the fuss. "We've got a homicide." Silence fell over the people. A few crossed themselves and many heads were bowed. "To work," was the brisk order. Notebooks and pens were brought out and the silence broken by the questions of the constables to the crowd.

Stepping delicately, as to not disturb the crime scene, the detective began to systematically examine the evidence. Making a note of the address, the detective went to close the deceased woman's eyes in respect when a scrap of white stood out in the gloom. "What do we have here?" Crouching down, the paper was picked up and read aloud:

"This is the First."


	2. Lavender's Blue

Disclaimer: Still not my property.

This chapter contains MAJOR spoilers for the twist ending. You have been warned!

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"Georgie, oh Georgie," sobbed Miss Casewell. The brunette's straight hair had escaped from the bun she had taken to wearing it in and was splayed across the man whose chest she was burying her head in. He too was teary eyed and was clutching onto her with a force to rival the petite woman's grip, though the two were similiar in size. Hysteria wasn't gripping him, instead, it was shock. Reflected in his dark chocolate brown eyes was the fear that the distraught woman he was embracing was going to disappear into the snowy golden twilight outside of Monkswell Manor.

"Kathy. Kathy?" The man, her Georgie, looked down, snarfing as he wiped his damp face in the shoulder of his charcoal grey shirt. The collar was askew and the rolled up sleeves were beginning to come undone. Innocently, he took his right hand that was draped on her left shoulder and brought it to his temple. Slowly, as if in a dream, soft strands of black hair laced with tinges of brown began to skip through his fingertips. "Tell me about the farm. The dogs. When we were happy. Tell me a story about Jimmy." The request stopped the duo dead in their tracks. The dimly lit hallway stood before them, with the closed doors on their sides as their only witnesses.

Miss Casewell's breath had been ragged as her body began to ache and pain her. Not five minutes prior, this man had flung her against a wall. It nearly had sent her hurtling through the kitchen door. That was his elation at seeing her, she knew. Shocked at the plea, she could only repeat it. "A story. About Jimmy." Such an idea seemed so foreign. It had been such a long time since her younger brother had come to mind, and even her elder brother hadn't crossed her mind either. Now, in the space of forty-eight hours, her past and blood kin were nearly all her mind could occupy itself with.

"Yes Kathy," Georgie was pleased at her understanding. Wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, he smiled lopsidedly. "You always told the best stories of us all." Perhaps it was the lighting, the smile, or his tone, but he looked like the preteen Miss Casewell remembered her brother to be instead of the man before her. Her brother from what seemed another lifetime, when she was Katherine Corrigan with George and Jim. "Yes, your stories were best. About pickles and toads..." Georgie reminisced. He began walking again, making his sister resume their careful pace.

"And bunnies and roads, and the dogs sleeping in the sun," Kathy recollected wistfully. Their trek through the hall came to an end when she stopped them in front of a specific room. With the greatest of care, she opened the door and let herself in, bringing her brother with her. "And of long journeys..." Navigating the small, sparsely furnished room was difficult, even with little in the wayof baggage cluttering the floor, with Georgie latched to her.

"And coming home again, to you," Georgie finished the childhood ditty of sorts as Kathy seated him on her bed. Absently, he began tracing the outline of a mouse on the spiralling floral print of the homey quilt serving as a winter bedspread. Softly, perhaps it hadn't been intended for vocalization, softly, he commented, "It was fun."

Attuned to Georgie so extraordinarily, Kathy caught the offhand comment. "What was fun?" Her soothing, low murmur filled the room like the golden glow given off by the nightstand lamp. Taking his hand in hers, she pressed again. "What was fun my love?"

"Being a policeman." His matter-of-fact reply elicited a fearful response from his confidante. Standing, watching the man that her brother grew into, her palms began to sweat. Gulping, trying to restore moisture to her dry mouth, Kathy began to glance about to find a way to incacipate him if the need arose. Oblivious to her plotting, he patted the bed. "Sit with me Kathy," he pleaded. "The big and there's so much room." Inquisitive eyes begged her soundlessly.

_So much room...instead of the thin, broken pallet._

Uneasy, but unsure of any other safe course of action, Kathy timidly sat next to Georgie. "Going about in the dark. Telling people what to do," the words just spilled off his tongue. "That one with the ties nearly got blamed. That was my doing. And so was their terror. I caused it!" He laughed savagely, but with the blink of an eye, his expression drastically changed. Not meeting her eyes as he had been doing during his gloating, Georgie whimpered. "I was scared," was his admission.

Sliding backwards so that she was fully seated on the bed, Kathy hugged Georgie to her and began rocking back and forth. "Let it out dear. Lie your head down in my lap my love. You've got nothing to fear. I'm here. That's my boy. Tell me about it and we'll make it go away." Curled up, with his head resting in her lap, Georgie wept. Lightly, she stroked his head, wiping off of it the sweat that glistened in beads. All the while, he maintained his childhood habit of twirling his hair. A half-smile lifted Kathy's somber expression as she observed the action.

I was scared of her," came the response after a few long moments of silence. "Of seeing her again." His too-thin frame began to tremble. Kathy slightly tightened her grip on her brother.

"Who? Who my dear?" After she saw Georgie nearly strangle their hostess to death, her thought processes had blurred, as if a soft filter of clouds had been put in front of them. The only clear thing she could think on was her currently barmy brother.

"Her! Her!" Georgie fitfully beat at the air, struggling to get up. "**Her**. The one with the carving knife." Expectantly, he began whistling an all-too-familiar tune, though the glee and malice that she had heard in it earlier was not present. Just the knowledge that the bars of music could explain what he could not bring himself to vocalize.

_Doo, doo, doo...see how they run..._

Kathy began to quake and quaver at the simple, innocent notes. "Her." Images of suffering in the merciless cold returned to unbidden. Memories suppressed and long forgotten. Georgie's noble refusal to take his turn with the blanket, shaking it off by pointing out her own raw toes or Jimmy's chronic shivering. The brave face that he put on. Nights where they escaped the pain through fantastical stories that she spun. Of enduring extreme pain to force their fingers around a pen to write out a letter to their teacher, so rosy-faced and young. Then, finding Jimmy that one February morning, colder than when Georgie didn't use the blanket. Unmoving and cold.

"Did I say something wrong Kathy?" Georgie's anxious voice broke her travel down memory lane. "I didn't upset you, did I? I never thought I'd find you Kathy. I never wanted to hurt you. I promised to look after you and Jimy, but I couldn't look after Jimmy," he moaned. Fidgeting, a feral look of primordial glee transformed his gentle face into that of a savage. "I got rid of her. Yes I did. The one who made it happen. I _felt_ the life leave her. Right under everyone's noses. What fun!"

"Miss Casewell," a steady, authoratative voice interrupted his ravings. Kathy jumped in surprise. They greying Major Metcalf, tall and commanding, yet compassionate, walked in. His eyes surveyed the scene, never staying in one place long. "I apologize. I had to ensure Mr. Ralston was with his wife. She was understandably upset."

"Of course, of course," Kathy murmurred. Georgie had gone silent and was still curled up in her lap. Still occupying himself by twirling his hair.

"Has he been going on like this for long?" Metcalf was all business, a comfort to the Miss Casewell inside of Kathy. She was a business woman, determined and confidant. "I heard some of it while I was fetching the sedative." Conerned, he knelt down, ready to take whatever action necessary.

"Yes. Ever since we went up the stairs," she answered in a voice that was hollow to her own ears. Who was she now? No-nonsense Leslie Casewell or timid Kathy Corrigan?

"This will help him. He won't feel a thing," Metcalf said soothingly, extracting a small packet, like a tea bag, from his coat pocket. "It's for the best."

"What's it for Kathy?" Georgie reached out, but Metcalf took it out of the young man's reach. "What's for the best?" Squriming, he tried to get his sister to look at him. She cast her eyes downward, conflicted.

"Go on," Metcalf urged. "He needs this."

"But he's my brother! My flesh and blood!"

Toneless and devoid of emotion was the response. "Exactly." Withdrawing a few meters, Metcalf gave them a bit of space.

"Kathy? What's going to happen?" Georgie asked with all of the innocence of a child shining through the man's face with stubble on it.

"I'm going to take you away Georgie," Kathy choked out. A few tears shone in her eyes, but did not fall.

"Will there be dogs to play with? And fields to run in?" Small glee lifted his features and his hopes.

"If you're a good boy my love and take your medicine."

"I don't take medicine," he pouted. Sitting up a bit, he crossed his arms and stuck his bottom lip out.

Kathy smiled indulgently, "Of course you do Georgie. But it's been so long that you've forgotten it. And like the little boy who never ate his vegetables, you're not happy my dear."

"I remember that story," Georgie smiled happily. "You told it to Jimmy." Once again, his entire demeanor changed. Wary and suspicous, he queried, "Will it taste icky?" His gaze shifted from Kathy to Major Metcalf and back to Kathy.

Alarmed, Kathy looked to the Major for guidance. He mimed pouring a cup and drinking it while holding his nose. "Vegetables taste nasty, but they're good for you," she cryptically responded. "Just have a spot of tea." Looking over, she saw Metcalf had begun to mix the contents of the packet with the abandoned tea in the cup that rested on her nightstand. Left over from before the murder. Before the revelation.

Metcalf handed the cup to George. "Just drink this up. Come on, sit up lad." Wearily, Georgie complied the order immediately. Something in the authority Metcalf exuded struck Georgie. He gulped half the tea down before pulling a face that would have made his audience laugh if not for the gravity of the situation.

"It's cold!" He exclaimed. "And smells disgusting." Cajoling and pleading from his persuasive sister got him to drink it to the last drops.

Metcalf took control, guiding Kathy out of the way as he collected the cup and put it on its saucer--a lavender print, she noted. The ever so _present_ man, who made the whole debacle seem less stressful, took Georgie and tucked the droopy-eyed young man in snugly under the covers. Kathy eased herself back onto the bed, sitting at her brother's side.

"Thank you Major."

"Of course Miss Casewell. I trust you will be okay as I report to our hosts?" He stood in the threshold of the door, peaceful in spite of the goings-on.

"Georgie and me will be fine," she softly spoke. "It's my turn to take care of him I guess." She knew who she was. Leslie Margaret _Katherine_ Casewell. Both Leslie and Kathy. Not questioning the less than linear logic Kathy was using, the soldier nodded and exited her room. The door clicked as it closed behind him.

Drowsy from the tea, Georgie's mind wandered, causing him to ask, "Kathy? Sing me a song? LIke Mother did?" He looked up piteously.

"Of course Georgie," Kathy answered. "A lullabye of Mother's." But 'Mother' meant someone else to her now. A woman that Georgie had only ever seen when they were separated. So Kathy racked her memories for times even longer forgotten than Longridge Farm. Then, her mind's eye showed her the cup and saucer again. "A lullabye of Mother's." Casting the thoughts of the drink that her mother had been so fond of, that consumed her, she began:

"Do you remember what she looked like? No, neither can I. But to this day, I remember what she smelled like, lavenders. Filling the house with the scent of lavenders with every tiptoe."

Snug under the covers, Georgie began to nod off.

_Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, rosemary's green_

_When you are King, dilly dilly, I shall be Queen_

_Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?_

_'Twas my own heart, dilly dilly, that told me so_

_Rosmary's green, dilly dilly, lavender's blue,_

_If you love me, dilly, dilly, I will love you._

_Let the birds sing, dilly, dilly, And the lambs play;_

_We shall be safe, dilly, dilly, Out of harm's way._

The last thing the ex-sergeant knew was the crooning of his sister and the warmth that surrounded him as he sank into blissful darkness.


End file.
